Priorities
by sidekick heroisms
Summary: [Gift fic!] In order to find out who has been sexually assaulting students at Gotham Academy, and against his mentor's initial inclination, Dick goes undercover at his own school. He knows he will be at risk, but it's all for the sake of the mission. It's always about the mission.


**A/N: **_Hello, lovely readers! This one-shot comes to you all because of a lovely Christmas fic exchange between **Black Friar**, **Haleykim** and myself. _

_This is my response to one of Black Friar's prompts. _

_Special thanks to_ _Haleykim__for_ _the beta!_

_Enjoy :)_

_**Warning:** contains underage non-con_

* * *

xxx

_Priorities_ (pri-or-i-ties): To take precedence, especially established by order of importance or urgency.

* * *

xxx

"The love a parent had for a child, there is nothing else like it. No other love so consuming. No father - not even Valentine - would sacrifice his son for a hunk of metal, no matter how powerful."

― Cassandra Clare, _City of Ashes_

xxx

* * *

As soon as Dick finishes pulling his books from his locker, a hand shoots out and slams it shut.

"Did you see Benton yesterday?" Kent Milsoner beams, eager for gossip.

"Don't do that," Dick says patiently. He was not, _is _not, much for gossip; too many times he has been the subject of it, from the pretty mouths of higher-ups and people who knew _of _him but nothing _about _him, and no matter how many times Bruce has squeezed his shoulder and reminded him, _they just don't approve of things they don't understand_ (which was close to something his mother would tell him), it never makes the scrutiny fair. Dick does not want to be one of those people. "And no," he adds. "I didn't."

"I saw him in the principal's office yesterday," Kent spews in a rush, practically dancing around Dick as he follows him down the hall. Dick tries to block out the insistent nattering, but it is _right _in his ear. "With his parents and a couple of cops."

Curiosity is a terrible thing, Dick knows. It has gotten him into trouble in the past, and Dick knows he should just keep walking. But he stops.

"What?" he asks. Benton Wiles is one of the most straight-laced people Dick knows. He counts thirty seconds when he washes his hands, never has a hair out of place, never curses and is the proud captain of the debate team. Dick can't picture him doing anything wrong, let alone something that would require the authorities. Kent must have his information mixed up. "You sure you have the right Benton?"

But Dick knows better. There is only one Benton in the entire school.

"It's him, alright. I saw him with my own eyes. He was all snot-faced and crying and everything."

Dick's chest squeezes. Kent's enthusiasm at someone else's expense is disturbing and Dick feels as though he is piercing into Benton's privacy. Kent has always had a knack for being chatty (the school's best rumor-spreader), ever since the kid first arrived to Gotham Academy a year ago. He uses gossip as a means of making friends, but it only seems to drive people away. Dick does not see him often – they don't even share any classes – but in all the years Dick has known him, he has never been unkind. It is times like this, however, he wishes he were somewhere else.

Kent's voice goes hush-hush. "I hear its drugs."

"Okay, now I _know _you're making things up."

"Well, why else would the police be there?"

Bothered that he does not have an answer to that, Dick shakes his head. "That just doesn't sound like him at all," he insists, mostly to himself. It certainly wouldn't be the first time someone strayed from the straight and narrow… but Benton?

Before he can pump Kent for more information (because Bruce always tells him to trust his gut and right now his gut is sensing something peculiar), the other boy darts off, towards a small crowd forming by one of the exits. Something must be going on outside, Dick gathers, but he cannot see past his peers to see what it is.

He _does_ see Mr. Ramsey, however, as the professor tries to force his way through the small cluster of students.

"Everyone, _please_ get back to class. It's a small matter that can be settled just as easily without an audience," he stresses, looking frazzled.

Dick waves him over once he's through the throng.

"What's going on?"

Ramsey rubs at his temples. Dick is sure that he is not the first person to ask that question today.

"Someone broke into the greenhouse."

"The greenhouse..? Why would someone want to break in there?"

"I wish I knew. But nothing seems to be out of place or stolen, other than one potted plant being destroyed. Honestly Mr. Grayson, what is getting into kids these days? And at a school like this…" he drones miserably, rubbing absently at a small cut stretching across his chin. It seems to itch under the stress.

Dick stares as subtly as he can. He does not recall the scratch being there yesterday and there is at least a day's worth of stubble on Ramsey's chin, which rules out nicking himself while shaving. Dick not only sees this scratch, he sees the bandage wrapped around Mr. Ramsey's hand.

"Are you alright?" he ventures warily.

"Quite alright," Ramsey assures, briefly rubbing at the bandage in question. "Managed to cut myself trying to pick up the broken glass in the greenhouse. Stupid, really."

Dick tries to be sympathetic. "One of those days?"

"One of those days."

The second half of his day does not lessen as far as oddities go. When Dick files into the waiting car at the curb to return home and shares his hellos with Alfred, he is startled when an extra voice joins in.

"What,_ I_ don't get a hello?"

"Bruce!" Dick chimes, breaking into a smile. It quickly fades, however, when confusion creeps in. "You're… _both _picking me up?"

"I insisted," Bruce explains simply. There is something obstinate about his voice.

Dick sinks into his seat a little.

"Am I in trouble?"

"Hardly. Just sit back for a while, okay Dick?"

Dick listens. He presses his back to the seat and stares out the window as the school grounds shrink into the distance. Not long after it disappears completely from view, Bruce cranes his neck and speaks again.

"How was school?"

"…Fine? What's is this about?"

"Anything interesting happen today?"

_Huh…_ It isn't like Bruce to beat around the bush. Dick scrunches his face. "You mean besides what's happening right _now_?"

"Dick."

There are several things Dick wants to mention, but vagueness is not something he thrives off of. He leans forward in his seat. "Tell me what you're looking for and maybe it'll be easier to help you."

There is hesitation on Bruce's end. An extended but quiet sigh. And for the remainder of the ride home, Bruce explains everything.

xxOxx

During his earlier days as Robin, Batman would remind him of his mortality.

_I'm not afraid of death_, he would say, though it was a lie.

And Batman would tell him, stone-faced and dutifully; _there are worse things than death_.

Those words had been a form of compassion, not a sign of mistrust, and as time progressed and the true colors of the city infected him, becoming his lifeblood but never his obsession, Dick liked to think he understood what he meant.

A sexual predator creeping around his school is not something he expects. He half-expects it to be drugs, like Kent had implied, but Bruce's story makes more sense; it explains why the police were there with Benton, and why Benton was supposedly crying.

Dick shudders. Bruce explains that Benton is not the first victim, but the third, and likely not the last. And the school is keeping it under the radar since, apparently, bad publicity far outweighs the safety of the students. He also says, with paramount graveness, that the victims are all high-achieving students. Students like Lacey Donahue, head cheerleader, David Shuffler, star Quarterback. And of course Benton Wiles, captain of the debate team.

All of whom hold a special place in the trophy case in the main hall.

Dick is not stupid; he does not need Bruce to elaborate his concerns – _he _is in that trophy case. Out of all the things in this world that could put his life in danger, he never thought being a mathlete would be one of them.

It is with _great_ persistence and practiced stubbornness that Dick convinces Bruce to allow him to be his eyes and ears in the school. It will raise too many questions for Batman to be snooping around, and Dick feels responsible for the safety of his peers. Bruce denies this of him at first, of course, but Dick has a trump card.

_Which would you rather have? Telling me to stay put and not knowing what I end up doing? Or letting me help you and knowing my status at all times?_

That easy.

Now, he mulls this over as Bruce fiddles with the inner lapels of his school blazer. His mentor's fingers gently tuck a small device into the inner folds of the fabric, and when he's finished, Dick observes the patchwork. There is no visible trace of any tampering, which does not surprise him in the least. Gently, he runs his thumb over where the microphone is planted. "You'll hear everything I do?" he asks.

His voice must have echoed in Bruce's ear because he nods curtly, then kneels to the ground in front of him. They are more eye-level this way, and Dick knows to listen carefully.

"Report everything you find," Bruce orders. "These kids are in danger, Dick, _including _you. I need you to take this seriously."

"As serious as a heart attack," Dick promises.

Mollified by this response, Bruce turns to an assortment of papers piled on a nearby tabletop. He flips through them briskly, scanning information he has collected thus far.

"We know about the molestation," Bruce reminds Dick carefully. "But be aware that there could be more to it than that."

Dick _does_ know, so he doesn't counter it.

Before departing for school with Alfred, Bruce tests the mic once more, obsessive about the effectiveness of such things. Dick allows the obsessiveness; many times, it has saved his life.

"When you get the chance, explore the greenhouse. You mentioned it was broken into?"

"You think it's connected?" Dick asks, nodding. He has yet to see the break-in for himself.

"I don't want to rule it out."

"Right," Dick agrees. He slings his backpack over his shoulder and pushes his hair back and out of his face. "I'm ready when you are."

It is the wrong choice of words, Dick realizes, because Bruce's face hardens. He imagines that Bruce, or any father, when it came to something like this, would ever be ready.

xxOxx

The first part of his day is spent being a good student, and he is half-certain that Bruce is bored listening in on it. Lunch is the first and only time he is able to disappear without raising suspicion, and he slips outside as soon as he is able, where he crosses the short length of field and slips into the greenhouse. The entrance is not locked, and Dick doesn't really remember it ever being so, so he finds it peculiar that someone would need to force their way in. There isn't much worth stealing unless someone just _really _wanted some flowers (and somehow he doubted that Poison Ivy would bother to target the school's conservatory for any reason).

"In the greenhouse now," he says quietly for Bruce's sake, knowing his mentor would still be glued to the computer, listening. He follows the inside wall, looking for the break-in, finding it easily. "Okay, I've got the point of entry here, but… It's small. I couldn't even fit if I tried," he observed, perplexed. The opening is small, yes, but Ramsey had pointed out that a potted plant had been busted, which means someone must have been in the greenhouse at some point, even if it wasn't through the break.

He crouches down to search for any pieces of glass that may have been left behind, but it seems to have been cleaned up. Even the dirt appears to have been shoved aside by what looks like a shoe. Dick's eyes are trained to find details, but he sees nothing.

Then, he asks, "Bruce? Do you think it would be possible for someone to be stashing drugs in the greenhouse?"

He knows that Bruce cannot respond to him audibly, but he poses the question regardless for his mentor to ponder. Kent's chatter about drugs could be completely fabricated, he knows, but hypothetically, if someone were to hide drugs in here and suddenly need to get to them, and _quickly_, Dick can see the panic cause them to smash their way in to do so. But Dick doesn't see a rock or anything of the sort that may have been thrown to gain access. There are other ways, though, he supposes.

His eyes gloss over his surroundings, landing momentarily on a vacant spot between two greeneries.

"There's an empty space along the racks where a potted plant used to be. Mr. Ramsey did say that one of them got broken."

He pulls out his phone. Takes pictures of everything he's described. Sends them to Bruce. As the last image sends, he catches sight of the time and how much of it has already lapsed.

"Crap. Bruce, I have to get back," he says, stuffing his phone into his pocket and sprinting back to the main building before his presence is recognized as missing.

And, as it turns out, lunch is about the only time Dick has to look into things, so for the next couple of days, he uses it visiting the greenhouse and spending time with a talkative Kent Milsoner, who is still hung up on the drug theory. A few days in, Dick finds the hole in the greenhouse window has been patched, the plant replaced. He even makes a few scattered visits to the school trophy case in hopes of seeing something new to help him further his understanding of the culprit's MO other than targeting high-achieving pupils.

For a second, his eyes flick to his own picture. He stares at his practiced smile and the trophy that is nearly as big as himself. Something moves in the deepest pits of his stomach.

A week passes, then, and Dick is getting tired of dead ends. There are only so many times he can return to the greenhouse, but Bruce insists that sometimes you can visit a place ninety-nine times and not notice something new until the one-hundredth visit. Dick only hopes he won't be doing this one-hundred times.

That particular fear is swept under the rug when he quite literally bumps into Henry Bunker on the way back to his locker the following day.

"Sorry, sorry," Dick fumbles, then notices the troubled look on the other boy's face. Dick wants to curb that ever-present curiosity of his, but he also happens to know that Henry Bunker is crazy good at playing the violin – good enough to earn a place in the trophy case down the hall due to his prodigy-like talent with the elegant instrument.

"It was my fault," Henry insists. Even his voice is deflated. "I wasn't paying attention to where I was going."

"It's okay, but, did something happen? I mean, no offense, but you seem a little…"

Thankfully, Henry is an honest soul, with no qualms about expressing himself.

"I found this flyer in my locker for the Forte International Music Competition," Henry shares, handing Dick said flyer. Dick takes it to observe. It looks like the real deal, but such a simple document would be easy to reproduce. He folds it over in his hands to search for anything incriminating, but nothing stands out. Still, one would think that events like this would be advertised via announcement boards and the like; not hidden away in select lockers.

Carefully, he eyes Henry. "And you're upset about that? I thought you liked to compete."

"I do! I _live _for things like this. Look at the time for the informational meeting, though."

Dick does. He memorizes the entire page. Checks the date. It's set to only a couple of days from now. Very last minute.

Henry frowns. "But my folks and I are going out of town. I won't be able to make it."

"Oh," Dick breathes, slowly returning the flyer. "I'm sorry, Henry."

"It's just bad timing, you know? A little more of a heads up would have been wonderful," Henry laments, shaking his head as he tucks the already crumpled piece of paper into his pocket. "Anyway, I have to run. See you around?"

Absently, Dick says, "Yeah," and watches Henry vanish around the corner before he himself makes a beeline for the main office. If flyers like the one Henry got have anything to do with the attacks, if they are a way of baiting students, there is a chance they are being printed off right here at the school.

"Did you get that? I think I know how they're luring their victims," Dick explains to Bruce as he speed-walks, locking himself inside the office and settling in front of the computer. It's a simple system that doesn't even need hacking into. "Flyers pertaining to specific interests, depending on the receiver. That's one theory at least."

Public school files are easy to filter through. Dick finds an entire folder dedicated to posters and handouts, sitting pretty for anyone curious enough to click on them. He does so, and is startled when, at the same time, someone tries to come in through the door.

A voice mumbles from the other side when it doesn't open, followed by the jingling of keys. Quickly, Dick snaps a USB drive into the computer and copies the entire folder over to it. The last file transfers just as the door opens.

"Mr. Grayson? What on earth are you doing in here?" Ramsey is visibly befuddled, and perhaps a little shaken to find someone locked in the office. Dick doesn't blame him.

"Sorry, I was trying to be quick. My printer at home wasn't working so I thought it would be okay to just print it off here."

Ramsey hesitates, fingers curling a little tighter at the manila envelope he's clutching. He then approaches the massive printer and flicks a switch, causing it to hum to life. A slight smirk tilts his lips. "It would help for this to be on."

"…Ah."

"Anyway, when you're all finished I would like to print out a few things myself."

"Okay," Dick responds, nodding, thankful that the USB he chose to stick into the drive was one he used for school. There is a small collection of past essays there; Dick clicks one at random and sends it to the printer.

Replacing the USB in his bag and bringing the monitor back to the desktop, Dick scurries over to gather his papers, and with a simple apology, he slips out of the room before he can be pinned with suspicious questioning.

It is the most excitement he sees for a while. Enough days pass uneventfully that Dick has to remind himself of the severity of the case he's looking into. Bruce's serious expression is a good reminder of things. Dick cannot say he understands what it is like to send your child off to a place where they will be targeted, but Dick imagines it is more or less the same thing he feels when he lets his guardian wander into similar situations.

In the Batcave, when he passes by the batcomputer, Dick can see his observations across the monitors, as well as some of Bruce's comments and thoughts. Dick tries to lock it all away in his head. He's running out of leads; no attacks have taken place for a couple of weeks, Henry's supposed meeting has come and gone without incident, and ever since his run-in with Ramsey in the office, the door to the office has been locked. Easily, he could pick that lock, he knows, but he already got what he wanted.

Once at home, he and Bruce had gone through the files. Not too shockingly, four of the latest files were for events that would spark the interest of people like Lacey Donahue, David Shuffler, Benton Wiles, and the more recent but most fortunate, Henry Bunker.

Dick thinks long and hard about these findings as he shambles tiredly into school the following morning. Snooping around during school hours and as Dick Grayson is slowing down the process, and Bruce has to tell him several times that these things can take a while, but Dick can tell that Bruce wants this over sooner than later as well.

And Dick assumes that it will be, because by a stroke of luck or misfortune, it is that very Thursday morning that Dick opens his locker and a colorful piece of paper flutters to his feet.

He reads it out loud for Bruce's sake, _Gotham Mathematical Olympiad. _ Bruce is unable to react until Dick physically hands him the flyer later that day, and his face is a mix of things that Dick can only half-identify.

The date is set for next week, Monday; another last minute timeframe. Bruce never actually tells him he needs to go to the meeting, but they both know he will. He can close the case if he does, and the kids at his school will be safe again. And maybe, Dick hopes, it will cause the darkening rings under Bruce's eyes to fade.

"I'll be okay," Dick tells Bruce a couple of days later, the morning before his alleged meeting, unprompted. "No one will touch me."

"Don't give them the chance," Bruce responds seriously, fingertips pressed lightly to where the device is still hidden in Dick's blazer. "Get a confession and then get out."

Dick nods, absorbed by the creases marring his guardian's face when he realizes he is no longer doing this for himself or his peers; he's doing this for Bruce.

xxOxx

The first of many things that seems untrustworthy about the flyer is the time. Not right after school but a couple of hours after it lets out – long enough for the building to feel abandoned.

Dick watches everyone leave until the halls thin out to no one but himself. Feeling productive now that things were being put into motion, he enters the classroom the flyer instructs him to go. It is adjacent to the chem lab, with minimal décor and only one window to stream in any light during the day. The blinds are closed now, making the room feel uninviting, but Dick throws on a face of obliviousness and wanders in anyway.

"There's no one here," he whispers to Bruce, pulling up the blinds. He can see the greenhouse in the distance. The quick patch-job on the broken window.

He does not know if the greenhouse incident and the assaults at school are connected, but stranger things have lined up, and Bruce does not like to believe in things like coincidence and by extension, neither does Dick.

A sound from the hall makes him turn, but when his eyes fall to the doorway, only silence follows. Dick stands perfectly still, holds his breath, waits for it to happen again, but it doesn't.

"Hello?" he tries. Infiltrating old run-down buildings by the docks or sneaking around some mastermind's elaborate lair alone was one thing, but this is his school and school is not meant to make a person feel so… uneasy.

He steps silently towards the door. So quiet, that when he steps foot into the hall, he hears someone gasp as if startled by his presence. But Dick only catches a vague outline of a man when he turns before he is suffocated by something wrapping around his face. He knows that Dick Grayson is not supposed to be a fighter, but he can still _try to fight_, so he does. He kicks. He struggles.

But Dick knows the smell of chloroform well. Knows that when he wakes up, he is going to feel like crap. Headache, sore throat, bad taste in his mouth, all those wonderful things. He claws at the arms keeping him in place, but he has already breathed in too much, and it is not long before he stops fighting completely.

The inky blackness that takes him is nothing like the welcoming darkness that Bruce represents, and that scares Dick more than anything else.

xxOxx

A strange noise filters into his ears; an annoying, repetitive gurgling sound like a half-groan, half-whimper that keeps him from falling back to sleep. Then the head pain hits him, and he knows he's not supposed to be sleeping. He pries his eyes open and tries to identify the source of that god-awful noise, and is a little disappointed to find that it's _him_.

He glances towards the sky; an easy feat, considering he is flat on his back. The moon shines dimly (and due to pollution and regularly crummy weather, Dick has a hard time remembering a night where it was bright and glowing), half-stifled by dark clouds. Dick wonders just how long he was out if it is already dark. Silhouettes of leafy trees tower over him, and for a fraction of a second, Dick panics that he is, for whatever reason, in the middle of the woods. Tossed, abandoned, ditched.

Memories creep back to him then, and Dick attempts to assess how his body feels, to see if he feels different. Violated. But he feels nothing.

Literally _nothing_.

He tries to sit up, and the fear becomes very real when he isn't able to so much as twitch.

Was he tied up? Dick recalls that there were no signs of victims being restrained in any way, but there were no signs of resistance from them either. And even if he was bound, he should still be able to flex his fingers and toes, turn his head, struggle, _something_.

And he _can't_.

A rustling to his left sparks fright in his chest, and suddenly Dick is very aware of his breathing. He slides his eyes to the side, grateful that he can do at least that much, and is relieved to find that he is not, in fact, in the middle of nowhere, but in the greenhouse. In the lackluster lighting, he sees a shadow approach him.

"You're awake, finally," it says, and Dick actually feels scared. The voice is warped; they are smart enough to disguise it.

His mind buzzes with a million questions, but one jumps to the forefront. "Why can't I move?"

There are two other times in his life that Dick can recall feeling out of sync with his own body. Once was with Poison Ivy, her toxins swarming through his system and making him believe, with every fiber of his being, that he loved her. Another was at a party with Wally, when he consumed too much alcohol before realizing he had any at all.* And oh, was _that_ a night to remember.

This trumps those other times, of course.

"You're studious, Mr. Grayson. Let's hear a theory."

Dick doesn't dignify him with one. The man proceeds anyway.

"It's a neural inhibitor. A neuromuscular blocking agent of my own creation. You won't be able to move a muscle but you'll be able to feel every sensation."

He's right, Dick realizes. He cannot command any part of his body, yet he can feel the cold earth beneath him. The rocks digging into his back. Somewhere on his right hand, something is crawling on him. It's sickeningly clever, really.

"Oh."

"Tetrodotoxin would have paralyzed you, but it would have paralyzed other, more vital things as well. I doubt you'd want to risk cardiac arrest because your body forgot how to breathe. Suxamethonium wouldn't have lasted long enough and you would have risked… well, you probably don't much care for the details."

"I really don't," Dick admits, frustrated that he can't identify the voice past the modification. The _way_ he speaks is familiar though, but Dick has trouble placing it.

"Well the good news is, it won't kill you."

_Yay. _"Lucky me."

"Tell me something; how does it feel to be so privileged?" Even through the voice-changer, Dick can hear the tone darken. It's accusing, angry, and, Dick feels, unjustified. He works hard. Earns the things he's given. Appreciates everything he has and asks for very little.

"I don't understand."

"Of course not," the voice spits. Clouds drift away from the moon, and there is just enough light for Dick to see that the man is wearing a balaclava. "Kids these days don't realize how much is handed to them. How often mediocrity is rewarded. …How much their upbringing plays a part in all of it."

Dick thinks he knows where this is going, so he cuts to the chase. "You're mad at high-achieving students on campus," he says evenly. "But why?"

"I want what any parent wants; the best for their child. But apparently, teaching at this school does not count as a free pass for my son."

_Oh. _Dick's eyes narrow. Or at least he thinks they do. At any rate, he knows now that the perp is faculty. "Your kid doesn't get into this school so you take it out on the ones that _do?"_

Dick feels he must have hit the nail on the head, because the man says nothing for a long while, and Dick wonders, if he stays quiet enough, maybe the ground will swallow him up unnoticed.

But the man crouches next to him, pressing a finger to Dick's forehead. "Do you know how hard it is for students to concentrate and do well in school when they're… distracted? Or I guess a better word for it would be traumatized."

"Causing other students to fail isn't going to get your son in," Dick says, almost sadly. Sympathy is something engraved into his nature. He has to fight it sometimes; some people don't deserve it.

"It's a start," the man says, his distorted voice a little breathier than before. He rolls the balaclava up to his nose, exposing his mouth and chin. Dick notices the scar there instantly.

"Mr. Ramsey?" Dick reproaches. In retrospect, it's obvious, but having confirmation of it still sends a shock to his system. Ramsey is, after all, a trusted teacher that he's known for over a year.

Ramsey freezes, alarmed to hear his name said aloud, then he relaxes when he remembers there is no one else around. But Dick remembers, with great horror and slight relief, that they are _not _alone. Bruce is right there over his heart, listening in.

_Oh god. _

Bruce _is_ still listening, right?

"_Very _studious," Ramsey commends and despises.

Dick's chest heaves. Everything is coming together. "I'm not the first person you've brought here," he says tightly, hoping to get Ramsey to admit it himself. He needs the confession on record. "No one broke into the greenhouse. Someone was trying to break _out_."

Ramsey does not deny it, which Dick assumes is just as good as a confession. Instead, Ramsey's voice lowers dangerously. "And why do you think that is?"

_Because you were trying to molest them, _Dick wants to say, but he chokes on the accusation. Dick Grayson is not supposed to know this much. It takes him a moment to find his voice again, and it is strained when he does. "I don't… I don't know."

The scar on Ramsey's chin stretches when he smiles.

Dick feels like a child; the way they fear unexplainable, monstrous things in the darkness of their bedrooms, because Ramsey looms over him, and Dick is unable to do anything but close his eyes. He had promised Bruce he wouldn't give anyone the chance to lay a finger on him, and now there are hands on him, and Dick, true to Ramsey's claims – Dick can _feel _it.

Those hands glide over his chest and torso for several long moments, and Dick can hear Ramsey's breath grow huskier by the second. His blazer is tugged open; Ramsey is anything but gentle as he yanks Dick's arms out of their sleeves and discards the jacket to the side. Then he begins unfastening the buttons of his shirt, from the bottom up. He does it slowly – intentionally, Dick thinks – savoring the process until at last his shirt is spread open.

"_Stop_," Dick orders as firmly as he can, but it hardly sounds like his own voice. Ramsey laughs at the feeble attempt and flattens his palms against Dick's bare chest. Dick's voice wavers, "This is so _wrong_."

Ramsey's hands float up to glide across Dick's collarbone, then to his neck, where they wrap around and _squeeze_. Dick burbles under the pressure, terrified that he'll be unable to prevent his own strangulation, because he can't save himself and it's too risky for Batman to show up to save him. Too convenient.

But then Ramsey lessens his grip slightly.

"Don't worry," he says. "No marks. That would be stupid."

Dick's tongue feels thick. "There's nothing stopping me from ratting you out."

Ramsey laughs, unfazed. "We'll get to that part soon enough."

And now Dick is genuinely confused. Had Ramsey done something to past victims to keep them from blabbing about what he'd done? He must have, otherwise Ramsey wouldn't still be at the school. …But what? _How?_

The compression against his throat returns, and Dick's voice is blocked. Ramsey's face comes close to his, and even though Dick can barely breathe, their lips are brought together and Dick is being kissed. He protests into Ramsey's mouth, disgusted as a tongue creeps inside and glides over his teeth.

His mouth is one of the only things left that Dick has any control over, and he'll be damned if he is going to let Ramsey strip that last freedom of him. So he bites down, _hard_. The taste of blood is almost instant.

Ramsey's head rips back, but Dick feels his hands in his hair, clutching angrily. Tightly – to where it feels as though his scalp is being skinned.

He stares down at Dick hotly, as though expecting an apology, but Dick only glares back at him. It's all he can do.

Then a hand slaps over his face, pinching his nose shut. He hears grunting. Fabric moving. Metal clinking. He opens his mouth to breathe–

–and gags when Ramsey's belt slips between his teeth and is secured behind his head. It hurts his jaw and makes him drool. But Dick is less worried about the new discomfort and more concerned about the fact that Ramsey is now one step closer to losing his pants.

But Ramsey reaches for Dick's hands instead, pulling them up and lacing their fingers together the way lovers do. He guides Dick's hands towards him, forcing Dick's flesh to press against his teacher's throat, then his chest, his stomach – and he freezes there for a moment. Dick prays he will not be forced to go further down.

"Why don't we cut to the chase?" Ramsey whispers. Even though Dick's body does not physically react, Dick can somehow still feel the shiver shoot up his spine. Ramsey drops Dick's hands – they flop uselessly to the ground – and Dick is breathing so hard and loud and fast around the belt he thinks he might be frothing.

He moans hysterically when fingers start to slither under the hem of his trousers and fingernails scrape along his hipbone.

_Oh god, oh god, oh god._

His world spins when Ramsey tugs on his slacks, effectively lifting him from the ground and flipping him over onto his stomach. His face burrows into the soil. He feels his hips being tugged, and _oh_, Dick _knows _what comes next. His cries are stifled, but he continues to scream. Ramsey, however, has already made his choice. It's just as Bruce said; everyone is capable.

_Oh_. Bruce.

_I'm so, so sorry, Bruce._

In the following moment, right about the time he feels his pants inch down his hips, glass shatters, and Dick thinks it is the most gorgeous sound he has ever heard in his life – the warmth and weight of Ramsey's body on his is promptly removed, and Dick can hear flesh pound into flesh repeatedly. He can only see out of the corner of his eye what is happening, but it becomes quickly blurred as Dick finally allows himself to cry, because it didn't happen – it didn't happen but it so easily _could have_.

Over the sound of bones cracking, dread settles in. Batman is risking a lot to save him, and the guilt makes him want to vomit. This wasn't supposed to happen. Batman was never supposed to come.

"Dick," Batman says. Dick feels wretched because Batman's voice sounds a lot more like Bruce's and this entire thing is his fault.

_Don't call me by name, _he wants to fret, but even when Batman cuts the belt from his mouth, Dick is unable to speak. Batman's gloves are covered in blood, but Dick doesn't care. He lets Batman run them through his hair over and over and over again. He can feel them shaking. Feel them hesitate.

_Oh crap,_ he thinks, and he summons the cooperation of his vocal chords. "He… didn't," he says, knowing it will be enough. Batman grips his face, and Dick stares steadfastly into the cowl's lenses. "He didn't."

Even through the disguise, the imminent relief on Batman's face is palpable. He gathers Dick off the ground and embraces his limp form. Thrown against his mentor's chest, his head cradled on a strong shoulder, Dick sees Ramsey sprawled across the dirt, unconscious and wheezing for air. He'll live, of course, but Dick is certain that when his professor wakes, he'll wish he were dead.

Batman redresses him silently, and Dick lets him. It is when Batman lifts him off the ground and into his arms that Dick dares to ask.

"How much did you hear?"

"Enough."

Dick doesn't ask any more questions; he doesn't speak at all, for that matter. He does not even remember the ride home. Feeling the safest he's felt in a long time, he falls asleep before that, before even exiting the greenhouse.

xxOxx

When Dick wakes, he feels heavy, like his insides are made of lead. He takes his time opening his eyes, and an even longer time trying to move. Bats are chirping in the distance, promising Dick that he is somewhere safe. He can hear voices as well, low rumbles that bounce off the walls and float pieces of conversation towards him.

"Bruce Wayne got pulled away to… only a few minutes but… got back, it was already… what to do."

"Master Bruce, you have done… if not for your… I assure you."

"You don't understand… I could _hear _his heart beating before… _seen _him, Alfred."

Dick doesn't like the self-blaming sound of Bruce's tone, so he tests his limbs. See if they move. There is a euphoric moment when he realizes they _do_, but it is like moving anchors, and Dick has to literally drag his arms across the bed before they even lift. Still, it is a significant improvement, so Dick rolls over to the edge of the bed and puts his feet to the chilled floor.

He counts to three, pushes off the bed, stands-

-and drops like a stone.

Dick hears the hurried footfalls of his guardian rushing towards him, and Bruce is at his side moments later, peeling him off the ground and placing him back in bed. "You shouldn't be moving around yet," he chastises gently.

"My last waking moments I was dead as a doornail. I need to _move_."

"You were _paralyzed_," Bruce corrects, carefully pushing down on the boy's chest when he tries to get up once more. He tucks a strand of hair behind Dick's ear. Through the small gesture, Dick can feel him trembling. "And it's still wearing off."

"This is the worst," Dick bemoans, sinking into the pillows at his back.

"It could have _been _worse," Bruce says seriously. "Dick, Theodore Ramsey was forcing addictive drugs to his victims directly after sexually molesting them."

There is more to it, Dick knows. There is motive and reason and plotting behind it – Dick knows that drugs would make his claims against a teacher unreliable, among other things – but Dick isn't ready to hear the details and Bruce knows not to get into them. Still, Dick feels ill at the thought of it, and Bruce seems to sense this.

"Dicky," he says, reaching for his hand.

But Dick reads between the lines. "You don't have to apologize to _me_, Bruce. _I'm _the one who's sorry," he whispers, eyes falling down to his knees. A twinge of anger tries to bubble to the surface but Dick fights it. Batman was never supposed to show up and put his identity at risk like that. "You were supposed to stay out of sight and instead you came to save me."

"Of course I did," Bruce alleged, reaching out to brush Dick's hair back again, but Dick lifts the heavy weight that is his hand and catches Bruce's wrist.

"You weren't supposed to. That was the point," Dick argues, but they both know it is half-hearted. He knows he would have been _ruined_ in so many ways had Batman not shown up. Deep down, he's glad he did.

Bruce's expression turns bittersweet. He slowly retracts his hand. "You've always been smart for your age, Dick. Maybe a little too smart sometimes. You and I both know why I came."

Dick does know. He clutches at the sheets, angry that his grip is weak and arthritic. "If someone had seen you, or made the connection-"

"Stop. It's okay," Bruce tells him in a way that is so gentle, Dick is actually startled. The exclusiveness of that voice quiets and comforts him. "Try to understand. Doing what we do, there is little safety, but it is still my job to keep you _safe_."

Dick's response dissolves when Alfred comes into view, silver tray in hand. On it are three steaming cups – tea for Alfred, coffee for Bruce and hot cocoa for himself. Leave it to Alfred to know just the thing.

"Master Bruce," Alfred says, handing a steaming cup to his eldest charge. "Commissioner Gordon is on the phone, looking to speak to Bruce Wayne. Batman has informed him of something rather scandalous happening at Gotham Academy that he thinks you should know about, apparently."

"Would you mind, Alfred?"

"I will keep Master Dick company, sir, yes."

"Thank you."

Mug in his left hand, Bruce reaches out with his right to pat Dick's cheek twice. Then he ascends the stairs to the manor. Dick watches him leave until his mentor is out of sight, then brings his gaze over to Alfred. The look on Alfred's face makes Dick realize that he is frowning.

"He wasn't supposed to do it," Dick defends again. Alfred hands him his cocoa, and Dick nods his thanks. "I'm not saying I'm ungrateful that he came for me, but Bruce is always talking about the _mission_. Staying focused on it, sacrificing for it."

At this, Alfred gently helps to guide Dick's hands to his lips, silently encouraging him to take a sip. Calm his nerves. Dick does, and is instantly soothed by the rich chocolaty flavor.

As he settles the mug in his lap, Alfred ever-so-kindly paraphrases it for him. "Don't you know, lad; you _are _the mission."

Dick's mind flashes to images of Bruce, not Batman. Alfred has never been wrong in the past, as far as he can recall, and it is difficult to argue with someone who has known Bruce since his childhood. To a great extent, Dick assumes that Alfred understands the role of a guardian better than he ever will.

So he takes another large gulp of hot cocoa and focuses on the ball of warmth as it travels down his throat and settles in his stomach. Neither he nor Alfred speak after that, comfortable with nothing more than each other's presence. It is thirty minutes before Bruce returns and Alfred excuses himself to fetch dinner, and by the time Bruce sits down on the edge of the bed, Dick's attitude has completely shifted.

It is Dick who grabs Bruce's hand, and squeezes. Though there is still plenty of work to do wrapping up the case, though he and Bruce have plenty to discuss, Dick finds himself in a good place.

_The mission_, he thinks, smiling faintly. There is an undeniable solace to it now. As far back as his memory allows, Bruce will do, has _always_ done, _everything_, for the sake of the mission.

End.

* * *

*friendly tip of the hat to **Black** **Friar**'s story, _'Breaking the Bat Rules_' :)


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